 Poetry: January 30, 2019 Issue [#9355] |
This week: Robinson Jeffers Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady
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Love The Wild Swan by
Robinson Jeffers
"I hate my verses, every line, every word.
Oh pale and brittle pencils ever to try
One grass-blade's curve, or the throat of one bird
That clings to twig, ruffled against white sky.
Oh cracked and twilight mirrors ever to catch
One color, one glinting
flash, of the splendor of things.
Unlucky hunter, Oh bullets of wax,
The lion beauty, the wild-swan wings, the storm of the wings."
--This wild swan of a world is no hunter's game.
Better bullets than yours would miss the white breast
Better mirrors than yours would crack in the flame.
Does it matter whether you hate your . . . self?
At least Love your eyes that can see, your mind that can
Hear the music, the thunder of the wings. Love the wild swan.
January 10, 1887 Reverend Dr. William Hamilton Jeffers and his wife, Annie Robinson Tuttle welcomed son John Robinson Jeffers into their family. The family lived in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania. Jeffers had a younger brother Hamilton Jeffers, who became an astronomer. The boys and their parents spent most of their childhood travelling Europe, attending schools in France, Germany and Switzerland. By the time Jeffers turned twelve he was fluent in German, French and English. Jeffers attended Occidental College in California, where he earned his bachelor's degree by eighteen.
A few years after graduating college Jeffers met Una Call Kuster who also graduated from Occidental College. Through Una was married at the time, Jeffers and Una fell in love. One day after her divorce was finalized, Jeffers and Una were married and moved to Carmel. Jeffers built their house there himself from stone. They had three children together, one daughter who died shortly after birth in 1913 and twin boys born in 1916. The couple lived there for the rest of their lives.
Jeffers’ first book of poetry, “Flagons and Apples,” was published in 1912 and didn't get the attention he had hoped for. Followed by “Californians” published in 1916. It wasn’t until “Tamar and Other Poems,” published in 1924 that Jeffers finally got the attention of the he deserved. In 1932 Jeffers was on the cover of “TIME,” magazine. In 1946 his version of the Greek drama Medea played on Broadway. "Give Your Heart to the Hawks and other Poems," was published in 1933 followed by "Solstice and Other Poems" published in 1935. Jeffers continued writing and publishing, "Such Counsels You Gave To Me and Other Poems," was published in 1937, the next year, "The Selected Poetry of Robinson Jeffers," was published. By this time Jeffers' anger for humanity began to show in his writing and people were starting to notice. "Be Angry at the Sun," was published in 1941 and "Medea," in 1946 "The Double Axe," published in 1948, which included a publisher’s note, warning on the potentially “unpatriotic” poems inside. Jeffers' popularity was fading fast by now.
Jeffers’ wife Una lost her battle with cancer in 1950. His last publication was,"Hungerfield and Other Poems," in 1954. Jeffers spent his later years in life in isolation, in his house by the sea. John Robinson Jeffers died on January 21, 1962.
The Beauty of Things
By Robinson Jeffers
To feel and speak the astonishing beauty of things—earth, stone and water,
Beast, man and woman, sun, moon and stars—
The blood-shot beauty of human nature, its thoughts, frenzies and passions,
And unhuman nature its towering reality—
For man’s half dream; man, you might say, is nature dreaming, but rock
And water and sky are constant—to feel
Greatly, and understand greatly, and express greatly, the natural
Beauty, is the sole business of poetry.
The rest’s diversion: those holy or noble sentiments, the intricate ideas,
The love, lust, longing: reasons, but not the reason.
To A Young Artist
by Robinson Jeffers
It is good for strength not to be merciful
To its own weakness, good for the deep urn to run
over, good to explore
The peaks and the deeps, who can endure it,
Good to be hurt, who can be healed afterward: but
you that have whetted consciousness
Too bitter an edge, too keenly daring,
So that the color of a leaf can make you tremble
and your own thoughts like harriers
Tear the live mind: were your bones mountains,
Your blood rivers to endure it? and all that labor
of discipline labors to death.
Delight is exquisite, pain is more present;
You have sold the armor, you have bought shining
with burning, one should be stronger than
strength
To fight baresark in the stabbing field
In the rage of the stars: I tell you unconsciousness
is the treasure, the tower, the fortress;
Referred to that one may live anything;
The temple and the tower: poor dancer on the flints
and shards in the temple porches, turn home.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
A sliver of light forces its way
through the crack in my curtain,
the violence sears my eyes in pain,
in the distance—
somewhere way off,
a phone shrieks
to call my attention …
it’s not that i don’t hear it,
it’s that i’m frozen;
interaction with people too
exhausting,
bones threaded with an ache
that makes contact
out of reach
lost in my own room,
even the familiar is
out of place
(still the phone keeps ringing;
each note a sucker punch)
my mind trudges through fog and mud and
memories,
searching for a time
life had colour …
the cafe, the river,
the green fields dotted with
yellows and pinks and blues;
all unreal in my stuffy room
with the smallest sliver of light
old life missed,
old friends distanced
old me abandoned.
Honorable mention:
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Good luck to all 
